Chip (and Other Stories)
by TheUn-POP-ableBubble
Summary: She knew he kept the cup but he didn't know she'd kept the chip. He's not the only one who keeps his treasures fondly. A tale of Belle and her love.
1. Matching Tokens

**Author's Note: Okay, who else has a new OTP after that last episode of Once Upon A Time ("Skin Deep")? I was inflicted with all kinds of fangirlish-madness when I watched it and I couldn't stop. I tried to channel it through into a story and here's what came of it. The first part takes place in their fairytale, the second part takes place in Storybrooke. Hope it satisfies those who have also fallen for the RumpelstiltskinxBelle ship!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own anything of Once Upon A Time.**

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><p>She never told him, but she kept it.<p>

That time she dropped the cup and split its side, the trivial fragment of porcelain bleeding white against his dark carpet somehow found its way into her hand and simply never left. Whenever she moved around the castle it came along, cradled it her hand as a small reminder that he wasn't at all what he had seemed. Her frantic and numerous apologies that day were spoken out of fear – it was well known that monsters loved pain and punishment above all else that they'd take any excuse to dish it out.

But her clumsy fumble had been "just a cup" and her fear towards him reduced to about the size of the chip on the floor.

It soon became a bit of a bother though, cutting her fingers every time she caressed it and sending her heart into spasms when she forgot where she had set it down. So, being the creative woman that she was, she sewed a little hidden pocket inside a sleeve of each of her dresses – a place it would be harmless and secure, a place where she could easily reach and know that she still held his kindness.

Even in her nightgown was there a pocket for the meager bit to rest beside her in sleep. Every night, without fail, she slept well in the castle; even though the dungeon – was it still a dungeon if he had furnished it for her? – remained her room, her secret treasure kept warm against her shoulder while a deeper secret kept warm against her heart.

It wasn't until after she kissed him that she fell into her dreams with tears on her face and ice against her skin, the comfort of the porcelain chip against her shoulder unable to be felt.

Even the two times she had left the castle, though she brought little else, that piece was something she made sure to bring with her. In the times she most doubted herself, or times of the harshest 'cleansing', it was something she could use to prove what she knew to be true – that her feelings weren't a sign of madness like they said, but of true love.

If only it wouldn't prick her fingers when she squeezed it tight.

If only it wouldn't nick her lips each time she kissed it.

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><p>People thought they knew everything.<p>

That was a lie. A delusion. A hallucination, mirage, illusion. It was everything they said she had.

But she knew better. Because _she_ knew everything.

Or, at least, everything there was to know. Everything important.

Like that people made mistakes. That no one actually helps her even though they call this place a hospital. That she could be helped because sunshine was healthy and that's why everyone down here was so sick. That madness is freedom. That love is madness.

She doesn't quite know how she knows the last one, only that she does and that it's true.

She knows why she knows that porcelain hurts though. The tiny white chip, once carelessly swept under her bed along with dust and dirt and hair, has sharp edges that make her hands bleed whenever she traces its shape.

No one knows she has it. (That's why she knows that people don't know everything.)

Except for her. (That's why she knows that she does.)

She wonders where the piece came from. Every piece comes from something whole – even if that whole is long shattered. Though she doesn't think the whole that this came from is shattered. There would be other bits – some tinier than the one she holds – underneath her bed if whatever it was had broken into several pieces.

Eyeing her precious treasure, she wonders if she'll ever see what it came from. If the piece will ever find its whole again.

She thinks it will. It's frustrating not knowing when you know everything but it gives her things to dream about at night, when she falls asleep with it cradled in her hands.


	2. Empty Words

**Author's Note: Less than 12 hours and you guys - all of you responsible for the FORTY ONE notifications in my Inbox! - spurred me up with enough excitement to write more. =) You guys are the best! **

**Just so you know, this is written as a continuation of the first chapter and so, written in a similar fashion. Only here, I wrote much more for Storybrooke Belle than I did for storybook Belle. I found that the Storybrooke Belle was more interesting to write and develop since we all know what she's like in the fairy tale.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>Regret was not something she ever liked to familiarize herself with.<p>

In truth, she has regretted very little in her life, though there is always a collapsing ache in her chest when she thinks of her late-mother's bracelet she threw into the lake during her temper about the unconsented marriage. Strangely, she does not regret the words she threw to her father, stemmed from that same temper.

Even stranger, she _does_ regret the words spat to _him_ that stemmed – not from temper, though that was surely present; no, the real root of her curses came – from heartbreak.

For while every made statement was true, there were other equally true statements that were not given breath.

He might be left with regret; empty of a heart and nothing to replace it with but a broken cup.

But she was left with heartache; empty of a heart and having nothing to replace it with but a stinging chip.

Perhaps, even _stranger_, is the fact that she does not regret loving him anyway.

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><p>She draws.<p>

It's the only way she can organize her thoughts. Knowing everything, it's difficult sometimes to keep it all in her head. So she uses paper – when they let her. When they don't, she screams.

When they do, she sketches all sorts of the strangest sights. Plates with cracks and missing pieces, trees barred by window panes without curtains, sugar cubes in sugar bowls… and daisies.

She's pretty sure she should be drawing something else… But daisies are the only flower she remembers receiving – in crowns and rings and bracelets from her mother's garden…

If she could use colour – she often thinks this when her sketches become absent swirls and waves twisting and rolling over each other with a pattern not of logic but one of give and take – she would. Greys and greens and blacks though she thinks red and blue must have their places _somewhere_.

Words don't find their way onto her pages. Not often. She's much too busy with her knowledge to write down something as nonsensical, time-consuming, and space-wasting as _words. _

_Words. _She's never liked them much. What good did _words_ ever do anybody? Words cannot cure her though people think they can. Medicine too. Drugs and pills and needles in her skin.

She knows much better. That all she needs is sun. But she won't waste her time with words and they keep the curtains drawn tight and the doors locked shut. Most times she's convinced they've actually nailed them down to keep her and the others sick.

Because that's what happens, don't you know? Those without sun on their skin end up sick. She doesn't know why those that are healthy don't know this.

But there are a great many things those that are healthy don't know.

Almost as soon as she's satisfied that her thoughts are clear and clean, her point made, they disappear. Gone from her cell before she next opens her eyes.

And she screams for more paper.


	3. Curiouser

**Author's Note: By now some of you might be sick with the Rumbelle stuff but I'm still going as strong for these two as ever. It's actually quite sad, how I watch 'Skin Deep' every day. But it's awesome cuz I've begun catching all these cool items in the background of Rumpelstiltskin's castle - he has some of the coolest things! Seriously, watch it again and keep an eye on all the objects in his castle! You might spot Lumiere and Cogsworth~!**

**Anyway, it was because of seeing these odd things that I wrote more for this AGAIN. And I'm sure I'll write more when Belle reappears in the next-next episode (called 'Dreamy'. She's supposed to show up, anyway). Also, I finally got tired of not having her named so I've done it here. Sort of. Managed to weasel out of giving her a for sure name actually. I'm such a scuzz, I know. =P**

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><p>"Too curious for her own good," her father used to chide.<p>

"Bound to get her into trouble," Gaston used to say.

"Sure to be the death of you," they both warned.

Nearly all their words fell on deaf ears – Belle was often too far away in her own dreams to hear much of what they said.

What they didn't understand was that her innate curiosity wasn't something she could help or reign in. Goodness knows her parents tried when she was younger – swatting her hands when they reached for something they weren't supposed to, paying the maids extra for chasing after her when she went adventuring, keeping the library's adventure and fantasy sections sealed off with lock and key, admonishing her when another of her dresses became torn, soaked, and dirtied beyond repair.

Her mother was the first to give up. "No help to be found for her," she had declared, her inner amusement kept a careful secret at the sight of the maids with their faces flushed, their chests heaving, their hair wild and askew. The amusement grew at the sight of her young daughter; the girl in much the same state as the serving women only with a beaming grin lighting up her person.

Her father had never given up the task, even though it sometimes meant he himself would have to chase her down from the trees she'd climb up or out of the muddy rose gardens she'd dig in to. More often though, his attempts at containing her itching soul consisted of giving her books of philosophy to read or riddles and puzzles to solve. As she grew older, she came to enjoy these mental adventures more and more and, slowly, her dresses lasted longer and longer. She never forgot her will for adventure though, her nature for exploration – in fact it only grew, festered the more she read and the more she dreamt.

It wasn't ever something she could explain very well: why she wanted to see the world and go beyond what the horizon showed her. Beyond all that she could see there were lands and places and magic and people uncharted and unmet and it all just _screamed _of adventure.

Belle dearly loved her home and her family, but when she compared what little she knew to all that she _didn't _know… Her little town, her few friends, her small family, her life just – it all just became so – so… _provincial_.

Was it so wrong that she wanted more than that?

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><p>Some days were better than others.<p>

Of course they were, no day was alike any other day. Sort of. Most her days blent – what that the right word? – together in the same, monotonious routine but some days her thoughts were less curiouser and more sensiblate.

"Speaks her own language," she remembers a mother once saying. "Such an imaginative girl."

She doesn't feel imaginative. She feels mad.

On bad days she doesn't remember who she is. These days are the ones were her words and thoughts become so clouded and jumbled that she can't even tell when her eyes are open or shut tight. Her head pounds on those days. Her eyes cry. And she can't even make sense of what she draws. Sometimes she just rips the paper they give her into jagged pieces and throws them at the walls, up the window, or through the door. Sometimes she just rains her hand-made confetti down her face and wonders if she's ever received such light and hypnotic kisses as the paper showers her with.

Once, she ripped up a paper she had drawn on and sprinkled it down her face. She remembered everything that had been on it the next day – able to recreate it exactly as it had been drawn the day before. This excited her and she laughed, pleased at this new-found method of keeping hold of her sanity.

Except that holding onto those few images, allowed new ones, other ones, to be lost. She had screamed and cried so hard when the day came that she couldn't think of anything new to draw, that a woman had come with a man that held her down while a needle pierced her arm. So she settled for drawing plates with cracks in the wrong places and four sugar cubes instead of six so that she could later add sketches of a ratty, pointed hat, a family of puppets on strings, and a bunch of clocks with numbers in all the wrong places.

On the good days she remembers that her name is French.

On better days she wonders what that means for her name. If her name is French, is it Emilie? Or Annette? Victoire? Therese?

No matter how many times she asks, no one seems to want to tell her. So she names herself Bernadette, because for some reason, being called 'brave as a bear' appeals to her.

She wonders how brave a caged bear can be. She can't make sense of it when she later draws a cage and places, not a bear but, a horse inside of it.


	4. Change of Scene

**Author's Note: Back again! And so incredibly excited for OUAT Season 2! Who else can't wait to see what the next step in Rumplestiltskin's plan is?**  
><strong>To thank for this update, I should mention xxLunaTerraxx as well as Delea Marie who are, respectively, my most recent reviewer (who ended up reminding me that I had half of this written already!) and my most enthusiastic reviewer (who provided so much inspiration and confidence, even if she didn't know it).<strong>

**This chapter is a little different in that it focuses on Rumplestiltskin rather than Belle. I had wanted to try exploring him in this fashion for a long time but always felt intimidated about approaching such a dark and complicated character. Through writing what first came to mind and making it work, I managed it. But even here I've only done some shallow exploration of both Rumple and Mr. Gold. I hope I will feel confident to explore him more as I rewatch Season 1 and watch Season 2. Hope you all enjoy!**

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><p>Cages. It was always cages with him.<p>

That's not to say that he liked them. Quite the opposite, he thought them rather distasteful. But they were familiar and so they were safe. Not protective, per say – he had seen more than one cage ripped through by a beast thirsty for what lay trapped inside of it and just as many broken out of by a creature so desperate for something else. But there is certainly a comfort in familiarity.

And if there was one thing he was familiar with, it was cages.

Born half-lame, he had spent his entire life feeling limited by the trap of his very skin, his own bones betraying him and caging away a child's innocent play and innate freedom. His family's house had been a cage in its own right as well – his parents had rarely let him take foot outside, equal parts concerned for his well-being and ashamed of his disfigurement.

With his body and surroundings being confinements, it only made sense that his mind became one as well. It lured him cleverly inside, at the beginning enticing him with the bait of future dreams ('_when I get stronger…_') and seductive fantasies ('_it won't be like this forever…'_). And once he was too far in to turn back, the gates slammed shut and made him deaf and blind to the world around him. The few times he broke from its clutches, all his returned senses noticed was that nothing had changed. So he'd retreat back to the pretty prison he had furnished for himself. However, each time he returned – or maybe it was each time he left – it became uglier and dirtier until his once-sanctuary became a miserable hell full of self-loathing ('_how could you be so stupid…_') and helplessness ('_how can things ever get better…_').

But when the entire world itself became a cage ('_my son, my son, don't keep me from my Bae!_') familiarity's comfort just wasn't enough anymore.

And the desperate creature began to work on breaking out.

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><p>If there was one thing that most surprised people about Mr. Gold it was that he preferred coins over paper bills.<p>

Not that he'd ever request that their rents and loans be paid out in rolls of coins – Archie had done so once and Mr. Gold had laughed politely and accepted them but began reinforcing that his debts be repaid in proper paper cash. And it wasn't exactly odd to see him during a Sunday afternoon, on some bench around town and playing with the change in his pockets. Sometimes he'd be counting, sometimes polishing, other times he'd be rubbing them together or stacking them up in his palm. Some days he'd smile while doing so and other days he'd be his usual self but no one had ever dared to ask why this was so.

No one really ever dared to speak to Mr. Gold much at all.

The truth was coins were about the only way he could manage to keep track of time. The years of production on the bits of metal didn't change – no visitors ever paid Storybrooke a visit after all, any change that circulated around now was the same change that had circulated x number of years ago – but every few months or so, Mr. Gold could drop his pennies into the town's infamous well and he'd find a brand new abandoned nickel or dime on the street the next day – one with the current year stamped on it.

As crude a measurement of time as it was, it was more accurate than anything anyone else possessed, even if Regina tried to keep the town unsuspiciously modernized by switching out the few VHS players for DVD ones and swapping the stocks of the Lost Boys Records music store to CDs without anyone being the wiser. He could have almost appreciated the subtlety of it all, if it had been anyone but Regina. Nothing she did would ever impress him.

After all, it would be impossible for her to top her accomplishment of turning Belle against him.

That too was something that influenced his favour of metal coins: there could be nothing about them to relate back to the girl who'd loved him (_the girl he'd loved_). They were hard and tough beneath his fingers, not at all like soft flesh that bruised while it was dragged repeatedly to the dungeon, and they smelt nothing like filtered sunlight or honeyed tea.

The next nickel he found read 2011. He smiled but didn't smile, happy knowing that he'd soon retrieve one of his loves and hurt that he'd lost them all in the first place.


End file.
